Chapter VII: Front Matter (7)

Her aunt, by chance, came in that day,
And asked if the doll was dress'd;
Miss Jane has been engaged in play,
And careless of the rest.

The silk, to make her little dress,
Was on the table laid,
And, with an equal carelessness,
The cap had also strayed.

With gauze and lace the floor was strewed,
All in disorder lay,
When, bounding in with gesture rude,
Came Jane, returned from play.

She little thought her aunt to find,
And blushed to see her there;
It brought her carelessness to mind,
And what her doll should wear.

"Well, Jane, and where's your doll, my dear?
I hope you've dress'd her now;
But there is such a litter here,
You best know when and how."

So spoke her aunt, and, looking round
The empty bag she spied;
Poor Jane, who no excuse had found,
Now hid her face and cried.

"Since," said her aunt, "no work, you do,
But waste your time in play;
The work-bag, of no use to you,
I now shall take away."

But now, with self-conviction, Jane
Her idleness confessed,
And ere her aunt could come again,
Her doll was neatly dressed.

The Two Gardens

When Harry and Dick
Had been striving to please,
Their father (to whom it was known)
Made two little gardens,
And stocked them with trees,
And gave one to each for his own.

Harry thank'd his papa,
And with rake, hoe, and spade,
Directly began his employ;
And soon such a neat
Little garden was made,
That he panted with labour and joy.

There was always some bed
Or some border to mend,
Or something to tie or stick:
And Harry rose early
His garden to tend,
While snoring lay indolent Dick.

The tulip, the rose,
And the lily so white,
United their beautiful bloom!
And often the honey-bee
Stoop'd from his flight,
To sip the delicious perfume.

A neat row of peas
In full blossom was seen,
French beans were beginning to shoot!
And his gooseb'ries and currents,
Tho' yet they were green,
Foretold of plenty of fruit.

But Richard loved better
In bed to repose,
And snug as he curl'd himself round,
Forgot that not tulip,
Nor lily, nor rose,
Nor plant in his garden was found.

Rank weeds and tall nettles
Disfigur'd his beds,
Nor cabbage nor lettuce was seen,
The slug and the snail
Show'd their mischievous heads,
And eat ev'ry leaf that was green.

Thus Richard the idle,
Who shrank from the cold,
Beheld his trees naked and bare;
Whilst Harry the active
Was charmed to behold
The fruit of his patience and care.

Ann Taylor.

Doing Nothing

I asked a lad what he was doing;
"Nothing, good sir," said he to me.
"By nothing well and long pursuing,
Nothing," said I, "you'll surely be."

I asked a lad what he was thinking;
"Nothing," said he. "I do declare."
"Many," said I, "in vile inns drinking,
By idle minds were carried there."

There's nothing great, there's nothing wise,
Which idle hands and minds supply;
Those who all thought and toil despise,
Mere nothings live, and nothings die.

A thousand naughts are not a feather,
When in a sum they all are brought;
A thousand idle lads together
Are still but nothings joined to naught.

And yet of merit they will boast,
And sometimes pompous seem, and haughty,
But still 'tis very plain to most,
That "nothing" boys are mostly naughty.

[Page 68--Laziness Land]

Lazy Sam

There was a lazy boy named Sam,
The laziest ever known,
Who spent his time in idleness,
Like any other drone.
He loved to lie in bed till noon,
With covers closely drawn,
And when he managed to get up
He'd yawn, and yawn, and yawn.

If asked to do a simple task
He always would refuse,
And say that he was lame or sick,
His action to excuse,
And over pretty picture-books--
Twas really very odd--
This lazy boy would soon begin
To nod, and nod, and nod.

If on an errand forced to go,
He'd slowly, slowly creep,
Just like a snail; you might suppose
That he was half asleep.
And those who would despatch in haste
A note, or telegram,
Would chose a swifter messenger
Than such a lazy Sam.

If he was caught out in a storm
'Twould drench him to the skin,
Because he was too indolent
To hurry to get in.
Deep in his trouser's pockets he
His idle hands would cram,
And children crowded to the doors
To look at lazy Sam.

This lazy boy would lounge about
The docks, and often wish
That he could carry home to cook
A string of nice, fresh fish;
But though he was provided with
A reel extremely fine,
Said Sam "I do not think 'twill pay
To wet my fishing line!"

Oh, Sam was always late at meals,
And always late at school,
And everybody said that he
Would be a first-class fool.
For boys not half so old as he
Above him swiftly pass,
While Sam, the great big dunce! remains
The lowest in the class.

In every way, and every day
This lazy boy would shirk,
And never lift his hand to do
A bit of useful work.
His clothes were always on awry,
His shoe-strings left untied,
His hair uncombed, his teeth uncleaned,
Alas, he had no pride!

And so he went from bad to worse--
The good-for-nothing scamp!--
Until he settled down to be
A ragged, dirty tramp.
Through cities, towns, and villages,
He begged his daily bread,
And slept at night wherever he
Could chance to find a bed.

Men shuddered as they passed him by,
And murmured sadly, "Oh!
How can a human being sink
So very, very low?"
And e'en the jackass pricks his ears,
And brays aloud "I am
Not such a donkey, I declare
As yonder lazy Sam!"

The Beggar Man

Abject, stooping, old, and wan,
See you wretched beggar-man;
Once a father's hopeful heir,
Once a mother's tender care.
When too young to understand,
He but scorched his little hand,
By the candle's flaming light
Attracted--dancing, spiral, bright.
Clasping fond her darling round,
A thousand kisses healed the wound,
Now abject, stooping, old and wan,
No mother tends the beggar-man.

Then nought too good for him to wear,
With cherub face and flaxen hair,
In fancy's choicest gauds arrayed,
Cap of lace with rose to aid,
Milk-white hat and feather blue,
Shoes of red, and coral too,
With silver bells to please his ear,
And charm the frequent ready tear.
Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,
Neglected is the beggar-man.

See the boy advance in age,
And learning spreads her useful page;
In vain! for giddy pleasure calls,
And shows the marbles, tops, and balls,
What's learning to the charms of play?
The indulgent tutor must give way.
A heedless, wilful dunce, and wild,
The parents' fondness spoil'd the child;
The youth in vagrant courses ran;
Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,
Their fondling is the beggar-man.

Lamb

Good-for-nothing Lazy Man

A good for nothing lazy lout,
Wicked within and ragged without.
Who can bear to have him about?
Turn him out! Turn him out!

The Old Beggar Man

I see an old man sitting there,
His withered limbs are almost bare,
And very hoary is his hair.

Old man, why are you sitting so?
For very cold the wind doth blow:
Why don't you to your cottage go?

Ah, master, in the world so wide,
I have no home wherein to hide,
No comfortable fire-side.

When I, like you, was young and gay,
I'll tell you what I used to say,
That I would nothing do but play.

And so, instead of being taught
Some useful business as I ought,
To play about was all I sought.

An now that I am old and grey,
I wander on my lonely way,
And beg my bread from day to day.

But oft I shake my hoary head,
And many a bitter tear I shed,
To think the useless life I've led.

J. T.

Lazyland

Three travellers wandered along the strand,
Each with a staff in his feeble hand;
And they chanted low:
"We are go-o-o-
Ing slow-o-ow-
Ly to Lazyland.

"They've left off eating and drinking there;
They never do any thinking there;
They never walk,
And they never talk,
And they fall asleep without winking there.

"Nobody's in a hurry there;
They are not permitted to worry there;
'Tis a wide, still place
And not a face
Shows any symptom of flurry there.

"No bells are rung in the morning there,
They care not at all for adorning there;
All sounds are hushed,
And a man who rushed
Would be treated with absolute scorning there.

"They do not take any papers there;
No politicians cut capers there;
They have no 'views,'
And they tell no news,
And they burn no midnight tapers there.

"No lovers are ever permitted there;
Reformers are not admitted there;
They argue not
In that peaceful spot,
And their clothes all come ready-fitted there.

"Electricity has not been heard of there;
And steam has been spoken no word of there;
They stay where they are,
And a coach or a car
They have not so much as a third of there.

"Oh, this world is a truly crazy land;
A worrying, hurrying, mazy land;
We cannot stay,
We must find the way--
If there is a way--to Lazyland."

[Page 69--Laziness Land]

Lazy Willie

Oh! Willie is a lazy boy,
A "Sleepy Head" is he,
"Wake up!" his little sister cries,
"Wake up and talk to me."

The birds are singing in the trees,
The sun is shining bright,
But sleepy Willie slumbers on
As though it yet were night.

Oh! lazy boys will never grow
To clever manhood, you must know,
So lift your eyelids, sleepy head,
Wake up, and scramble out of bed.

The Lazy Boy

The lazy boy! and what's his name?
I should not like to tell;
But don't you think it is a shame,
That he can't read or spell.

He'd rather swing upon a gate,
Or paddle in a brook,
Than take his pencil and his slate,
Or try to con a book.

There, see! he's lounging down the street,
His hat without a brim,
He rather drags than lifts his feet--
His face unwashed and grim.

He's lolling now against a post;
But if you've seen him once,
You'll know the lad among a host
For what he is--a dunce.

Don't ask me what's the urchin's name;
I do not choose to tell;
But this you'll know--it is the same
As his who does not blush for shame
That he don't read or spell.

The Sluggard

'Tis the voice of the sluggard;
I heard him complain,
"You have waked me too soon,
I must slumber again."
As the door on it's hinges,
So he on his bed
Turns his sides, and his shoulders,
And his heavy head.

"A little more sleep
And a little more slumber;"
Thus he wastes half his days
And his hours without number,
And when he gets up
He sits folding his hands,
Or walking about sauntering,
Or trifling he stands.

I pass'd by his garden,
And saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle
Grow broader and higher;
The clothes that hung on him
Are turning to rags,
And his money still wastes
Till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit,
Still hoping to find
That he took better care
For improving his mind;
He told me his dreams,
Talked of eating and drinking,
But he scarce reads his Bible,
And never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart,
"Here's a lesson for me;
This man's but a picture
Of what I might be;
But thanks to my friends
For their care in my breeding,
Who taught me bedtimes
To love working and reading."

Watts

Idle Dicky And The Goat

John Brown is a man
Without houses or lands,
Himself he supports
By the work of his hands.
He brings home his wages
Each Saturday night,
To his wife and his children,
A very good sight.

His eldest boy, Dicky,
On errands when sent,
To loiter and chatter
Was very much bent;
The neighbours all call'd him
An odd little trout,
His shoes they were broke,
And his toes they peep'd out.

To see such old shoes
All their sorrows were rife;
John Brown he much grieved,
And so did his wife,
He kiss'd his boy Dicky,
And stroked his white head,
"You shall have a new pair,
My dear boy," he then said.

"I've here twenty shillings,
And money has wings;
Go first get this note changed,
I want other things."
Now here comes the mischief--
This Dicky would stop
At an ill-looking, mean-looking
Greengrocer's shop.

For here lived a chattering
Dunce of a boy;
To prate with this urchin
Gave Dicky great joy.
And now, in his boasting,
He shows him his note,
And now to the green-stall
Up marches a goat.

The laughed, for it was
This young nanny-goat's way
With those who pass'd by her
To gambol and play.
All three they went on
In their frolicsome bouts,
Till Dick dropt the note
On a bunch of green sprouts.

Now what was Dick's wonder
To see the vile goat,
In munching the green sprouts,
Eat up his bank note!
He crying ran back
To John Brown with the news,
And by stopping to idle
He lost his new shoes.

Adelaide Taylor

Idleness and Mischief

How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower.

How skilfully she builds her cell;
How neat she spreads the wax;
And labours hard to store it well;
With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labour or of skill
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play
Let my first years be passed;
That I may give you every day
Some good account at last.

Watts

Come and Go.

Dick Dawdle had land
Worth two hundred a year,
Yet from debt and from dunning
He never was free,
His intellect was not
Surprisingly clear,
But he never felt satisfied
How it could be.

The raps at his door,
And the rings at his gate.
And the threats of a gaol
He no longer could bear:
So he made up his mind
To sell half his estate,
Which would pay all his debts,
And leave something to spare.

He leased to a farmer
The rest of his land
For twenty-one years;
And on each quarter-day
The honest man went
With his rent in his hand,
His liberal landlord
Delighted to pay.

Before half the term
Of the lease had expired,
The farmer, one day
With a bagful of gold,
Said, "Pardon me, sir,
But I long have desired
To purchase my farm,
If the land can be sold.

"Ten years I've been blest
With success and with health,
With trials a few--
I thank God, not severe--
I am grateful. I hope,
Though not proud of my wealth,
But I've managed to lay
By a hundred a year."

"Why how," exclaimed Dick,
"Can this possibly be?"
(With a stare of surprise,
And a mortified laugh,)
"The whole of my farm
Proved too little for me,
And you it appears,
Have grown rich upon half."

"I hope you'll excuse me,"
The farmer replies,
"But I'll tell you the cause,
If your honor would know;
In two little words
All the difference lies,
I always say Come,
And you used to say Go."

"Well, and what does that mean,
My good fellow?" he said.
"Why this, sir, that I
Always rise with the sun;
You said 'Go' to your man,
As you lay in your bed,
I say 'Come, Jack, with me,'
And I see the work done."

R. S. Sharpe

[Page 70--Cruelty Land]

The Tables turned--Instead of the Bad Boys setting the poor Dogs fighting, the bad Dogs are setting the poor Boys fighting.

The Cruel Boy

Tom sat at the kitchen window
Watching the folks go by,
But what he was really doing
Was pulling the legs from a fly.

Yes, there he sat in the twilight,
Tormenting the tiny things;
First pulling their legs from their sockets,
And afterwards pulling their wings.

He knew not that his father
Was standing behind his back;
And very much wished to be giving
His cruel young fingers a crack.

But he waited till after dinner,
When Tommy was having a game;
Then he thought he would give him a lesson,
And treat him a little the same.

So catching his son of a sudden,
And giving his elbow a twist;
He pulled his two ears till he shouted,
Then hit him quite hard with his fist.

And did he not roll on the carpet?
And did he not cry out in pain?
But, when he cried out "Oh, you hurt me!"
His father would hit him again.

"Why, Tom, all this is quite jolly,
You don't seem to like it, my boy;
And yet, when you try it on others,
You always are singing with joy;

"It seems very strange," said his father,
And this time his nose had a pull;
But Tommy could stand it no longer;
He bellowed and roared like a bull.

"Hush! hush! while I pull your right leg off,
And scrape off the flesh from your shin;
What you often yourself do to others,
Sure you do not think harm or a sin.

"Now, Tommy, my boy," said his father,
"You'll leave these poor things alone,
If not, I go on with my lesson."
"I will," cried poor Tom, with a groan.

But hark! from the woodlands the sound of a gun,
The wounded bird flutters and dies;
Where can be the pleasure for nothing but fun,
To shoot the poor thing as it flies?

Or you, Mr. Butcher, and Fisherman, you
May follow your trades, I must own:
So chimneys are swept when they want it--but who
Would sweep them for pleasure alone?

If men would but think of the torture they give
To creatures that cannot complain,
They surely would let the poor animals live,
And not make a sport of their pain.

The Worm

Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm
The frame thy wayward looks decide
Required a God to form.

The common Lord of all that move,
From whom thy being flow'd,
A portion of His boundless love
On that poor worm bestow'd.

The sun, the moon, the stars He made
To all the creatures free;
And spreads o'er earth the grassy blade
For worms as well as thee.

Let them enjoy their little day,
Their lowly bliss receive;
Oh, do not lightly take away
The life thou canst not give.

Gisborne

Story Of Cruel Frederick

Here is cruel Frederick, see!
A horrid wicked boy was he:
He caught the flies, poor little things,
And tore off their tiny wings;

He kill'd the birds, and broke the chairs,
And threw the kitten down the stairs;
And Oh! far worse than all beside,
He whipp'd his Mary till she cried.

The trough was full, and faithful Tray
Came out to drink one sultry day;
He wagg'd his tail, and wet his lip,
When cruel Fred snatch'd up a whip,
And whipp'd poor Tray till he was sore,
And kick'd and whipp'd him more and more.

At this, good Tray grew very red,
And growl'd and bit him till he bled;
Then you should only have been by,
To see how Fred did scream and cry!

So Frederick had to go to bed,
His leg was very sore and red!
The doctor came and shook his head
And made a very great to-do,
And gave him nasty physic too.

Don't Throw Stones

Boys, don't throw stones!
That kitten on the wall,
Sporting with leaves that fall,
Now jumping to and fro,
Now crouching soft and low,
Then grasps them with a spring,
As if some living thing.
As happy as can be,
Why cause her misery?
It is foolish stones to fling
Boys, do as you'd be done by.

Boys, don't throw stones!
That squirrel in the tree,
Frisking in fun and glee,
Is busy in his way,
Although it looks all play,
Picking up nuts--a store
Against the winter hour
Frisking from tree to tree,
So blithe and merrily,
It is cruel stones to fling,
Boys, do as you'd be done by.

Boys, don't throw stones!
That bird upon the wing,
How sweet its song this Spring,
Perchance it seeks the food,
To feed its infant brood,
Whose beaks are open wide,
Until they are supplied;
To and fro to and fro,
The parent bird must go.
It is sinful stones to throw
Boys, do as you'd be done by.

Boys, don't throw stones!
That stray dog in the street,
Should with your pity meet,
And not with shout and cry,
And brick-bat whirling by:
The dog's a friend to man,
Outvie him if you can:
So faithful, trusty, true,
A pattern unto you;
It is wicked stones to throw,
Boys, do as you'd be done by.

Boys, don't throw stones!
It can no pleasure give
To injure things that live;
That beauteous butterfly,
The bird that soars on high,
The creatures every day
That round our pathway play;
If you thought of your cruelty;
You wouldn't wish even one to die.
Only cowards stones will throw
Boys, do as you'd be done by.

Instead of the Bad Boys Beating the Poor Dog, the Bad Dogs are beating the poor Boy.

[Page 71--Stealing Land]

No One Will See Me

"No one will see me,"
Said little John Day,
For his father and mother
Were out of the way,
And he was at home
All alone;

"No one will see me,"
So he climbed on a chair,
And peeped in the cupboard
To see what was there,
Which of course he ought
Not to have done.

There stood in the cupboard,
So sweet and so nice,
A plate of plum-cake
In full many a slice,
And apples so ripe,
And so fine;

"Now no one will see me,"
Said John to himself,
As he stretched out his arm
To reach up to the shelf;
"This apple, at least,
Shall be mine."

John paused and put back
The nice apple so red,
For he thought of the words
His kind mother had said,
When she left all these
Things in his care;

"And no one will see me,"
Thought he, "'tis not true;
For I've read that God sees us
In all that we do,
And is with us
Everywhere."

Well done, John;
Your father and mother obey,
Try ever to please them;
And mind what they say,
Even when they
Are absent from you;

And never forget that,
Though no one is nigh,
You cannot be hid from
The Glance of God's eye,
Who notices all
That you do.

Principle Put To The Test

A youngster at school,
More sedate than the rest,
Had once his integrity
Put to the test:--
His comrades had plotted
The orchard to rob,
And asked him to go
And assist in the job.

He was very much shocked,
And answered, "Oh no!
What! rob our poor neighbour!
I pray you don't go;
Besides, the man's poor,
His orchard's his bread;
Then think of his children,
For they must be fed."

"You speak very fine,
And you look very grave,
But apples we want,
And apples we'll have;
If you will go with us,
We'll give you a share,
If not, you shall have
Neither apple nor pear."

They spoke, and Tom pondered--
"I see they will go;
Poor man! What a pity
To injure him so!
Poor man! I would save him
His fruit if I could,
But staying behind
Will do him no good.

"If this matter depended
Alone upon me,
His apples might hang
Till they dropped from the tree;
But since they _will_ take them,
I think I'll go too,
He will lose none by me,
Though I get a few."

His scruples this silenced,
Tom felt more at ease,
And went with his comrades
The apples to seize;
He blamed and protested
But joined in the plan,
He shared in the plunder,
But pitied the man.

Cowper

Advice

Who steals a pin
Commits a sin
Who tells a lie
Has cause to sigh.

When ask'd to go
And sin, say, No!
The guilty breast
Is ne'er at rest.

You must not sin
A world to win
Why should you go
The way to woe.

The Boy And His Mother

In Aesop, we are told, a boy,
Who was his mother's pride and joy,
At school a primer stole one day,
And homeward then did wend his way.

He told his mother of the theft,
While she, of principle bereft,
Patted him on the head and smil'd.
And said, "You are my own dear child."

She praised him for the cunning feat,
And gave him a nice apple sweet.
In course of years the boy grew fast,
Till he became a man at last;

But all the time he slyly stole--
Sometimes a piece--sometimes the whole,
Till, finally, he grew so bold,
He kill'd a man and took his gold.

The day on which he had to swing
Did a large crowd together bring.
Among the rest his mother came,
And called him fondly by his name.

The sheriff gave him leave to tell
The broken-hearted dame farewell!
About his neck her arms she flung,
And cried, "Why must my child be hung?"

He answered, "Call me not your dear."
And by one stroke bit off her ear;
While all the crowd cried, "Oh! for shame!
Not satisfied to blast her name.

You add this violence to one
Whose happiness you have undone!"
"Good people," he replied, "I'll vow
I would not be a felon now.

If my mother had only tried
To win me to the better side.
But when in infancy I took
What was not mine, a small torn book,

Instead of punishing the feat
She gave to me an apple sweet;
She prais'd me too, and softly smil'd,
And said, 'You are my own dear child!'

I tell you here, both foe and friend,
This is the cause of my sad end."

[Page 72--Stealing Land]

The Boys And The Apple Tree

As Billy and Tommy
Were walking one day,
They came by a fine orchard side;
They'd rather eat apples
Than spell, read, or play,
And Tommy to Billy then cried,

"O brother, look! see
What fine clusters hang there,
I'll jump and climb over the wall;
I will have an apple,
I will have a pear,
Or else it shall cost me a fall."

Said Billy to Tommy,
"To steal is a sin,
Mamma has oft told this to thee;
O never yet stole,
Nor now will begin,
So red apples hang on the tree."

"You are a good boy,
As you ever have been,"
Said Tommy; let's walk on, my lad;
We'll call on our school-fellow
Little Bob Green,
And to see us I know he'll be glad."

They came to a house,
And they rang at the gate,
And asked, "Pray, is Bobby at home?"
But Bobby's good manners
Did not let them wait;
He out of the parlour did come.

Bob smil'd, and he laughed,
And he caper'd with joy,
His little companions to view.
"We call'd in to see you,"
Said each little boy.
Said Bobby, "I'm glad to see you.

"Come walk in our garden,
So large and so fine;
You shall, for my father gives leave;
And more, he insists
That you'll stay here to dine:
A rare jolly day we shall have!"

But when in the garden,
They found 'twas the same
They saw as they walk'd in the road;
And near the high wall,
When these little boys came,
They started, as if from a toad.

"That large ring of iron,
Which lies on the ground,
With terrible teeth like a saw,"
Said Bobby, "the guard
Of our garden is found;
It keeps wicked robbers in awe.

"The warning without,
If they should set an nought,
This trap tears their legs--O! so sad!"
Said Billy to Tommy,
"So you'd have been caught,
A narrow escape you have had."

Cried Tommy, I'll mind
What my good mamma says,
And take the advice of a friend;
I never will steal
To the end of my days,
I've been a bad boy, but I'll mend."

Adelaide

Honesty

With honest heart go on your way,
Down to your burial sod,
And never for a moment stray
Beyond the path of God;
And everything along your way
In colours bright shall shine;
The water from the jug of clay
Shall taste like costly wine!

Holte

Thou Shalt Not Steal

On the goods that are not thine,
Little child, lay not a finger;
Round thy neighbour's better things
Let no wistful glances linger.

Pilfer not the smallest thing;
Touch it not, howe'er thou need it,
Though the owner have enough,
Though he know it not, nor need it.

Taste not the forbidden fruit,
Though resistance be a trial;
Grasping hand and roving eye,
Early teach them self-denial.

Upright heart and honest name
To the poorest are a treasure;
Better than ill-gotten wealth,
Better far than pomp and pleasure.

Poor and needy though thou art,
Gladly take what God has given;
With clean hands and humble heart,
Passing through this world to heaven.

The Thief

Why should I deprive my neighbour
Of his goods against his will?
Hands were meant for honest labour,
Not to plunder, nor to steal.

'Tis a foolish self-deceiving
By such tricks to hope for gain:
All that's ever got by thieving
Turns to sorrow, shame, and pain.

Oft we see the young beginner
Practice little pilfering ways,
Till grown up a hardened sinner,
Then the gallows ends his days.

Theft will not be always hidden,
Though we fancy none can spy;
When we take a thing forbidden,
God holds it with His eye.

Guard my heart, O God of heaven,
Lest is covet what's not mine;
Lest I take what is not given,
Guard my heart and hands from sin.

Watts

[Page 73--Stealing Land]

The Thieves' Ladder

The girls were helping in the house,
With bustle and with show,
And told the boys to go away,
And not disturb them so.
And the boys went whistling down the streets,
And looking in the shops
At tempting heaps of oranges,
And piles of sugar-drops.

"Here, Willie, to the grocer's run;
Be sharp, now--there's a man,
And bring me home a pound of plums
As quickly as you can!
"Don't touch a plum--be sure you don't;
To-morrow you shall eat."
"I won't." he said, and, like a top,
Went spinning down the street.

The grocer weigh'd them in his scales,
And there was one too much;
He took it out, and all was right,
The scale was to a touch.
He wrapp'd them up in whitey-brown,
And tied them with a string,
And put the money in the till,
As 'twere a common thing.

Young Willie watched, with greedy eyes,
As this affair went on.
The plums--they look'd so very nice!
He wouldn't take but _one_.
So going quick behind a post,
He tore the paper so
That he could take out two or three,
And nobody would know.

There was a little voice that said,
Close by, in Willie's heart,
"Don't tear the hole--don't take the plum--
Don't play a thievish part!"
The little voice--it spoke in vain!
He reach'd his mother's door;
She did not see the hole he'd made,
His trouble then was o'er.

And what a trifling thing it seem'd,
To take one single plum!
A little thing we hold between
Our finger and out thumb.
And yet upon that Christmas eve,
That period so brief,
Young Willie set his foot upon
"The ladder of the thief!"

And as he lay awake that night,
He heard his parents speak;
He heard distinctly what they said,
The blood rush'd to his cheek.
He lay and listn'd earnestly;
They might have found him out,
And he might get a flogging too,
'Twas that he thought about.

A guilty person cannot rest,
He always is in fear;
Not knowing what may happen next
To make his guilt appear.
So, when he heard his mother speak,
He rose up in his bed,
And did not lose a syllable
Of every word she said:--

"We have not any turnips, John,
I could not spare the pence;
But you can go and get us some
Through Farmer Turner's fence.
"There's nobody to see you now,
The folks are off the road;
The night looks dark and blustering,
And no one is abroad.

"It is not far--you'll soon be back--
I'll stand outside to hear;
The watchman now is off his track,
And won't be coming near."
The father he went softly out,
And down the lane he crept,
And stole some turnips from the field
Whilst honest people slept!

'Tis not the words that parents say,
It is their very deed;
Their children know the difference,
And follow where they lead.
How often, if their lives are good,
Their children's are the same;
Whilst, if they're thievish, drunken,
Their children come to shame!

Now, Willie laid him down in bed,
His conscience found relief;
"I'm not the only one," he said--
"My father is a thief!
"How foolish 'twas to be afraid
About a little plum!"
He pull'd the bed-clothes o'er his head,
And dream'd of feasts to come.

On Christmas-day they had the pies.
The turnips, and the beef;
And Willie's foot was firm upon
The ladder of the thief.
And ere the snow was on the plain,
And Christmas-day came round,
And boys were sliding, once again,
Upon the frozen ground,

He, step by step, had further gone
Upon that dreadful road
That brings a man to misery,
And takes him far from God.
He cheated with his marbles first,
And then at other play;
He pilfered any little thing
That came within his way.

His parents did not punish him;
He went from bad to worse,
Until he grew so confident,
He stole a lady's purse.
Then he was seized, and brought before
The city magistrate;
And the police and lady came
The robbery to state.

And Willie he was proved a thief,
And nothing had to say;
So to the dreadful prison-house
He soon was led away.
In vain he cried, and pleaded hard
They would not take him there;
He would not do such things again
If they would hear his prayer.

It was too late! The prison door,
With bolt, and bar, and chain,
Was opened to take Willie in,
And then was shut again.
He saw the handcuffs on the wall,
The fetters on the floor;
And heavy keys with iron rings
To lock the dungeon door.

He saw the little, lonely cells
Where prisoners were kept,
And all the dreary passages,
And bitterly he wept.
And through the strong-barred iron grate,
High up and far away,
He saw a piece of clear blue sky
Out in the blessed day.

And "Oh!" he said, "my brothers now
Are out of school again,
And playing marbles on the path,
Or cricket on the plain.
"And here am I, shut up so close
Within this iron door;
If ever I get out again
I'll give this business o'er."

And Willie went to sleep that night
In his dark cell alone;
But often in his troubled dreams
He turned with heavy moan.
What sound is that at early morn
That breaks upon his ear?
A funeral bell is tolling slow,
It tolls so very near.

And in the court he sees a crowd,
So haggard and so pale,
And they are whispering fearfully
A sad and awful tale.
And all seem looking at a man
Who stands with fetters bound,
And guards and executioner
Are gathered close around.

And he beheld that wretched man,
Who trembled like a leaf:
His foot no more would stand upon
The ladder of the thief.
For he had climbed it step by step,
Till murder closed the whole;
The hangman came to take his life,
But where would be his soul?

And still the bell went tolling on;
It tolled so heavily
As that young man went up the stairs,
Out to the gallows-tree.
It tolled--it tolled--Oh! heavy sound!
It stopped--the deed is o'er;
And that young man upon the earth
Will now be seen no more:

Oh! parents watch your little ones,
Lest you have such a grief;
Help not their tender feet to climb
The ladder of the thief.
I have not heard young Willie's end,
I hope he learned that day;
But 'tis a thing most difficult
To leave a wicked way.

Sewell

[Page 74--Santa Claus Land]

I have given no Fairy Tales in this Childland. For in this _matter-of-fact_ age belief in Fairy Tales and all kinds of wonderful fictions is fast vanishing. Santa Claus, the "bestest" "goodest" fairy of all alone remains: and even he is gradually being doubted by all but the most innocent children, but as he as a personality is still largely amongst us, I give his popular history culled from many sources.

Santa Claus Land

At the top of the earth, which they call the North Pole,
Is where Santa Claus lives, a right jolly old soul!
And the ice and the snow lie so thick on the ground
The sun cannot melt them the whole summer round.

All wrapped up in furs from his head to his toes,
No feeling of coldness dear Santa Claus knows,
But travels about with a heart full of joy,
As happy as if he were only a boy.

His cheeks are like roses; his eyes are as bright
As stars that shine out overhead in the night,
And they twinkle as merrily too all the while,
And broad as a sunbeam is Santa Claus' smile.

He never is idle except when asleep,
And even in dreams at his labours will keep,
And all thro' the day and the night, it is true,
He is working and planning, dear children, for you.

On top of his tower with spy-glass in hand,
He goes every morning to look o'er the land,
And though there are hills all around, I suppose,
He sees, oh, much further than any one knows.

He peeps into houses whose doors are tight shut;
He looks through the palace, and likewise the hut;
He gazes on cities, and villages small,
And nothing, no, nothing is hidden at all.

He knows where the good children live beyond doubt,
He knows where the bad boys and girls are about,
And writes down their names on a page by themselves;
In a book that he keeps on his library shelves.

For good little children, the gentle and kind,
The prettiest presents of toys are designed,
And when Christmas comes round, as it does once a year,
'Tis certain that Santa Claus then will appear.

His work-shop is, oh! such a wonderful place,
With heaps of gay satins, and ribbons, and lace;
With houses and furniture, dishes and pans,
And bracelets and bangles, and all sorts of fans.

There are horses that gallop, and dollies that walk,
And some of the pretty doll-babies can talk.
There are pop-guns, and marbles, and tops for the boys,
And big drums and trumpets that make a big noise.

There are games for all seasons, the base-ball and kite,
And books which the children will seize with delight,
And the skates and the sleds, far too many to count,
And the bicycles ready for wheelmen to mount.

There are farm-yards in plenty, with fences and trees,
And cows, sheep, and oxen, all taking their ease,
And turkeys and ducks, and fine chickens and hens,
And dear little piggies to put in their pens.

There are gay Noah's Arks, just as full as can be
Of animals, really a wonder to see;
There are lions and tigers, and camels and bears,
And two of each kind, for they travel in pairs.

There are elephants stretching their noses quite long;
And reindeer and elks with their antlers so strong,
And queer kangaroos all the others amid,
With their dear little babies in pockets well hid.

Is Santa Claus happy? There's no need to ask,
For he finds such enjoyment indeed in his task,
That he bubbles with laughter, and whistles and sings,
While making and planning the beautiful things.

He's a jolly good fellow, but ever so shy,
And likes to do all his good deeds on the sly,
So there's no use spoiling a good winter's nap
For you'll not catch a glimpse of the jolly old chap.

When Christmas Eve comes, into bed you must creep,
And late in the night when you are asleep,
He is certain to come; so your stockings prepare,
And hang them up close by the chimney with care.

The baby's wee stockings you must not forget,
For Santa will have something nice for the pet,
And those who are thoughtful for others will find
The good saint at Christmas time has them in mind.

There is Tommy, who tended the baby with care,
A nice train of cars he shall have for his share,
And how happy will Eliza be when she looks
For her presents, and finds such a budget of books.

For dear little Mary, a doll there will be;
And for Alice and Jenny a gay Christmas tree;
And wee little Georgie, the baby, will find
A big stick of candy, just suiting his mind.

Oh, a jolly good sight is this funny old chap
When he's dressed in his bear-skin and fur-bordered cap,
All ready to start on his way through the cold,
In a sleigh covered over with jewels and gold.

While his deer from the mountains all harnessed with care,
Like race-horses prance through the clear frosty air;
'Tis fun just to watch them, and hear the bells ring,
And the stars seem to think it a comical thing.

For old Santa is bundled so close to the chin,
That there is not a chance for the cold to get in,
His cheeks are so rosy, his eyes how they flash!
No horses nor driver e'er cut such a dash!

He cracks his long whip, and he whistles a tune,
While he winks at the stars, and he bows to the moon,
And over the tree-tops he drives like the wind,
And leaves all the night-birds a long way behind.

His steeds speed away on a journey so fleet,
That they seem to have wings to their swift-flying feet,
For there's work to be done by a cheery old man,
And his coursers will help him as well as they can.

His sleigh is with toys and trinkets well packed,
You never beheld one with pleasures so stacked;
And though of good children he has such a list,
Not one is forgotten, not one will be missed.

An army he gives to the boy who is neat,
And never is rude in the house or the street;
And a farm to the lad who goes smiling to school,
Who knows all his lessons and minds every rule.

And if you would please him--dear Bertie and Jack--;
And win a nice prize from the old fellow's pack,
Be good little children, your parents obey,
And strive to be happy at work or at play.

At Christmas old Santa Claus toils like a Turk,
For the cheery old fellow is fond of his work.
With his queer looking team through the air he will go,
And alight on the house-tops all covered in snow.

Then down through the chimneys he'll dart without noise
And fill up the stockings with candy and toys.
There'll be presents for Julia, and Nellie, and Jack,
And plenty more left in the old fellow's pack.

And if Frank behaves well, and minds what is said,
Quits teasing the cat and goes early to bed;
He'll find for his present a sled or a gun,
A ready companion in frolic and fun.

On Santa Claus hurries, and works with a will,
For many tall Christmas trees he has to fill,
And loads them with treasures from out his rich store,
Till they blossom as trees never blossomed before.

Though round as a dumpling, and ever so fat,
In running and climbing he's spry as a cat,
And if the long ladder should happen to break,
And he should fall down, what a crash it would make!

I told you his home was up North by the Pole,
In a palace of hives lives this worthy old soul,
And though out of doors it may furiously storm,
Indoors as we know, it is sunny and warm.

When Christmas is over old Santa Claus goes
To his home in the North, and his well-earned repose,
And when he is rested and feeling tip-top,
The good-natured workman goes back to his shop.

And there he will labor from morning till night,
To make others happy his aim and delight,
And if his good-will the dear children would earn,
They must strive to be happy and good in return.

He comes like an angel of light from above,
To do on the earth sweetest errands of love;
And our hearts and our homes to so fill with good cheer
That we cannot help knowing when Christmas is near.

Then let us be glad, so that Christmas may be
A real Merry Christmas to you and to me!
And now that the story is ended we'll give
Three cheers for old Santa Claus! Long may he live!

[Page 75--Santa Claus Land]

A Visit From St. Nicholas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in there beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief and I in my cap
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
When out in the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash;
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below;

When what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name;
"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall,
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew,
With a sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too;
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound,
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack,
His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry.
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.

He was chubby and plump--a right jolly old elf--
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out sight;
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night."

Clement C. Moore

What Santa Claus Brings

Lovely little girls and boys,
Santa brings all sorts of toys.
Boxes filled with wooden bricks,
Monkeys climbing yellow sticks.

Dollies' houses painted red,
Tiny soldiers made of lead,
Noah's Arks, and Ninepins too,
Jack in boxes, painted blue.

Cups and Saucers, Pots and Pans,
China figures, Chinese fans,
Railway trains, with Tops and Tables,
Fairy Tales and Aesop's Fables,

Clockwork Mice, and Coloured Marbles
Painted Bird that sweetly warbles,
Dolls of every age and size,
With flaxen hair and moving eyes.

Cows and horses, Chickens, Cats,
Rattles, Windmills, Boats and Bats,
Ducks and Geese, and golden Fishes,
Skipping ropes and copper Dishes.

Books and coloured pictures, too,
And a thousand other things for you;
Dainty maidens, merry boys,
Santa brings all sorts of toys.

Little Mary

Dear little Mary,
With eyes so blue,
What has Santa Claus
Brought for you?

He has brought me a cup,
And a curly sheep,
And a cradle where dolly
May go to sleep.

The best of all
Is this funny box
That winds with a key
Just like the clocks.

And when you've wound
The spring up tight,
The monkey dances
With all his might,

And Fido barks
And the puppies play:
We're all very happy
This Christmas day.

Christmas

Dainty little stockings
Hanging in a row,
Blue, and grey, and scarlet,
In the firelight's glow.

Curly-pated sleepers
Safely tucked in bed;
Dreams of wondrous toy-shops
Dancing through each head.

Funny little stockings
Hanging in a row
Stuffed with sweet surprises,
Down from top to toe.

Skates, and balls, and trumpets,
Dishes, tops, and drums,
Books and dolls and candles,
Nuts and sugar-plums.

Little sleepers waking:
Bless me, what a noise!
Wish you merry Christmas,
Happy girls and boys!

The Nursery

[Page 76--Santa Claus Land]

Christmas

When the children have been good,
That is, be it understood,
Good at meal-times, good at play,
Good all night and good all day,--
They shall have the pretty things
Merry Christmas always brings.

A Christmas Eve Adventure

Once on a time, in a queer little town,
On the shore of the Zuyder Zee,
When all the good people were fast asleep,
A strange thing happened to me.

Alone, the night before Christmas,
I sat by the glowing fire,
Watching the flame as it rose and fell,
While the sparks shot high and higher.

Suddenly one of these sparks began
To flicker and glimmer and wink
Like a big bright eye, till I hardly knew
What to do or to say or to think.

Quick as a flash, it changed to a face,
And what in the world did I see
But dear old Santa Claus nodding his head,
And waving his hand to me!

"Oh! follow me, follow me!" soft he cried,--
And up through the chimney with him
I mounted, not daring to utter a word
Till we stood on the chimney's rim.

"Now tell me, I beg you, dear Santa Claus,
Where am I going with you?"
He laughingly answered, "Why, don't you know?
To travel the whole world through!

"From my crystal palace, far in the North,
I have come since dark,--and see
These curious things for the little folk
Who live on the Zuyder Zee."

Then seating himself in his reindeer sledge,
And drawing me down by his side,
He whistled, and off on the wings of the wind
We flew for our midnight ride.

But first, such comical presents he left
For the little Dutch girls and boys,--
Onions and sausages, wooden-faced dolls,
Cheeses and gingerbread toys!

Away we hurried far to the South,
To the beautiful land of France;
And there we showered the loveliest gifts,--
Flaxen-haired dolls that could dance.

Soldiers that marched at the word of command,
Necklaces, bracelets and rings,
Tiny gold watches, all studded with gems,
And hundreds of exquisite things.

Crossing the Channel, we made a short call
In Scotland and Ireland, too;
Left a warm greeting for England and Wales,
Then over the ocean we flew

Straight to America, where by myself,
Perched on a chimney high,
I watched him scramble and bustle about
Between the earth and the sky.

Many a stocking he filled to the brim,
And numberless Christmas trees
Burst into bloom at his magical touch!
Then all of a sudden a breeze

Caught us and bore us away to the South,
And afterwards blew us "out West;"
And never till dawn peeped over the hills
Did we stop for a moment's rest.

"Christmas is coming!" he whispered to me,
"You can see his smile in the sky,--
I wish Merry Christmas to all the world!
My work is over,--good-bye!"

Like a flash he was gone, and I was alone,--
For all of this happened to me
Once on a time, in a queer little town
On the shore of the Zuyder Zee!

M. M.